


Braids and Crowns

by khazadqueen (ama)



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Hair Braiding, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-03
Updated: 2013-12-03
Packaged: 2018-01-03 08:12:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1068120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/khazadqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas helps Gimli tend to his hair before the coronation of the King, and they make plans for the night to follow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Braids and Crowns

**Author's Note:**

> idek, man, I'm a huge fan of their outfits at the end of RotK. They're stunning, and I had a powerful urge to see one of those "formal couple poses," of the two in those clothes, so I wrote it. And threw in some hair-braiding, because I've written that trope for three different fandoms now and it worked!

Gimli had just risen from his bath when there was a knock on the door. He hastened into his breeches and started to wring out his hair, heavy with moisture, as he called “Enter.” He had recognized the knock, and was not surprised to see it was Legolas who slipped quietly through the door.

The Elf was dressed already, and Gimli was startled to recall—not for the first time—that his friend was a prince. Legolas certainly looked it today, having shucked his travelling clothes. He wore a silver shirt with a high collar, embroidered in glittering leaves, and his hair had been washed and brushed until it shone like beaten gold. On his forehead shone a silver circlet—Elvish-wrought, and too delicate for Gimli’s taste, but it would be foolish to deny that the swooping lines didn’t suit him.

“The Prince of Mirkwood does me a great honor,” Gimli said gravely, and smiled at the musical laughter this produced.

“It will be a long day, my friend, yet I take heart in the fact that the king will be even more uncomfortable in his finery than I in mine. Never have I seen him happy wearing aught but armor.”

“Nor I—it will be a sight to see.”

“But not as shocking, I think, as the one you seem fit to provide,” Legolas asked, eyeing Gimli’s state of undress with amusement. “I had heard that Dwarves were a private people—am I to be corrected?”

“I will be dressed and ready soon,” Gimli assured him. “Many times I have had to scrub my skin in order to banish the dirt of long travels; I shall be the only of my kin present, and let it not be said that the Dwarves of Erebor sent only a scruffy messenger to the coronation of the king!”

Legolas sat on the bed, his face somber, as Gimli turned to his dress. The emissary from Mirkwood had brought with them a chest from Erebor, containing Gimli’s finery, gifts for Aragorn, and a long letter bearing the details of what had passed in his absence. He had missed much, and his eyes lingered again on the letter as he began to unpack the chest.

“I was surprised to hear that none of your kin had travelled with—or at least after—mine,” Legolas said, his voice low with concern. “Has such evil befallen the Lonely Mountain that they could not spare more guests?”

“Aye and nay,” Gimli replied, his heart heavy. “Mine are a stout people and hard to kill; our numbers are not so very reduced. Alas, Dain the King Under the Mountain has fallen, and King Brand of Dale, and our halls have suffered much damage. There are walls to be rebuilt, family to bury—none of mine, blessed be Mahal’s name—and new kings to be crowned. The task of standing for the Dwarves in Gondor has fallen to me.”

Gimli dressed slowly, relishing the unfamiliar feel of soft fabric against his skin. His undershirt was slate grey and his trousers even darker; he recognized them from years past, when his parents first thought he ought to be included in the politics of their realm. He had been reluctant to turn from his axe-training, his craft, and his history books, but now he appreciated the thought. The overshirt… that was new, deepest blue velvet with pale gold embroidery at the hems and sleeves.

A memory flashed in his mind from many long years ago—when he was yet a young Dwarf, sitting motionless in his family’s new rooms at Erebor. He did not move, did not speak, barely allowed himself to breath, because his father was speaking of his journey. He remembered Gloin leaning over his wife’s side, squinting through the dim light at the tapestry spread over her lap.

“Yes,” he murmured. “Balin beside the fireplace, and—will you be including Gandalf and Bilbo?”

“The burglar, of course. Haven’t yet decided on Gandalf; he takes up so much _space_.”

“That he does, aye,” Gloin chuckled. “He sat on the other side, there. And in the center… Thorin stood just here, arm on the mantle, his face turned lit by the fire. Ach, I’ll never forget the look he bore, not as long as I live… he wore his furs, still, and a shirt of mail, and over that his blue coat. A man of Durin’s blood if I ever saw one.”

And his voice trailed away, and young Gimli sat in somber silence as his mother bent over the embroidery. It had looked splendid when it was finished, and well Gimli remembered the hours he had stared up at the figure of Thorin Oakenshield, the hero who had given them Erebor, solemn and dignified in his blue coat. His fixation had not escaped his mother’s notice, he saw, and he ran his hands over the shirt with a soft smile. He pulled it on, and straightened it, and buckled his belt over it feeling proud and humbled all at once.

Legolas must have seen some of his feelings in his face, because he sat up and a thoughtful expression overcame him.

“You will stand well for your kind, Gimli, son of Gloin,” he said in a quiet voice. There was a pause, and he smiled slyly. “If you are not late.”

Gimli snorted, and reached up to touch his hair ruefully.

“I am nearly ready, my friend.”

“Come,” Legolas said abruptly, and he gestured Gimli to the stool that sat before the polished mirror. “You shall tend to your beard, and I will attempt to tame your hair—if indeed such a thing is tamable. Of all our adventures this long year, I believe this challenges my courage the most.”

Gimli did not know, precisely, what made him agree. Perhaps it was the memories of an earlier time and familiar hands offering a similar comfort; perhaps it was because the gentleness in Legolas’s voice, beneath the teasing, stirred his heart. He sat before the mirror and selected two brushes from the array before him. The larger, he handed to Legolas, and the elf neatly sectioned his hair into three parts. He began to brush, starting from the left—carefully at first, and then more firmly.

“Doughty is the race of Dwarves!” he laughed. “Even their hair puts up a fierce fight and refuses to be tamed!”

“And weak are Elves if they fall in such a battle.”

Gimli was punished with a strong yank, and he felt silent. Legolas continued to tend him, his fingers light and swift, and Gimli found the touch calming. His mind wandered in a haze of pleasant comfort as he combed his beard with practiced hands and began to braid one lock.

“Ach—I’ve forgotten, in the chest there ought to be some ties and golden beads.”

“Good,” Legolas said as he stood to fetch them. “For it is my custom to braid the hair close to the skull, and tie it off with a few strands, but I believe your hair is too thick—and as for your skull, I am not sure I can find it.”

“Cushions the helmets,” Gimli chuckled. “Not too many in the back, now. There mayn’t be any of my kin here, but a Dwarf of Durin’s line ought not wear working braids on such a day.”

He snapped a bead in place and went to braid another lock of hair on the other side. Legolas sang to himself quietly as he finished brushing Gimli’s hair. His voice was light and clear as mithril. The window was open, and Gimli’s trained ears could hear the reverberation of his words against the marble. It sounded right, to him, the stone absorbing and singing back. If Legolas’s voice was a mite more like a Dwarf’s, he would say it sounded like home. As is, he wondered how it would sound rippling through trees and leaves.

“Now I am not the one who will make us late,” Gimli said gruffly as the song died down.

“I am nearly done.”

He ran his thin fingers through Gimli’s hair and encountered no tangles—which, as far as he could remember—was a first. Then, his fingers flying, his wound two quick braids by Gimli’s temples. He tucked them behind his ears, and Gimli could feel the rough archer’s callouses against sensitive skin. He smiled to himself. For Dwarves, it was easy to forget that Elves were strong fighters despite their frail appearance and delicate voices and silvery laughs. Now, having seen the result of Legolas’s wiry strength, he couldn’t think of a Dwarf he would prefer by his side in a fight.

Before he could stand, Legolas’s hands alighted on his shoulders. His hand brushed at the velvet coat absently, and then paused. Gimli looked at him in the mirror, a smile on his lips. Gondor’s chairs weren’t made for Dwarf size, and sitting on one, he was at his normal height, just at Legolas’s chest. They made an odd pair in their finery, dark and light, tall and short, fiery and golden hair. He thought of how they had presented to others on their journey and nearly chuckled. At least in Rohan the dirt and scrapes of the journey had made them look alike. No wonder people had stared.

Still, he would miss being home without Legolas’s familiar presence at his side. His eyes lingered on the image in the mirror, and he could not deny that it was a pleasing sight.

“A strange picture we make,” he murmured. “Though I cannot decide if we are more or less so, without our hardy Ranger beside us.”

“As usual, he is ahead,” Legolas commented wryly. “Shall we run to catch him?”

“Nay. ’Tis beneath our dignity. We shall walk, for the Three Hunters now have naught to hunt but a good meal, an ale, and a full pipe at the end of the day. And wine,” he added before the Elf could beat him to it. “I suppose your kinsmen have brought the kind you favor?”

“They have,” Legolas said, his lips quirked. “Too strong for many elves who are not used to the taste, so I am eager to see how our mortal friends fare.”

“Am I to finally see an elf overindulge?” Gimli chuckled.

“Not this one! I had not planned to have more than a glass. I thought…” He spoke slowly, and his fingers reached up to trail over the delicate braids in Gimli’s hair. “I thought that, after the men and hobbits have gone to bed, you and I might walk the paths of Minas Tirith, as we did Lothlorien an age ago. I might learn of marble as you did the trees, and together we can plan our journey north.”

Gimli did not respond, but his heart was full. In Lothlorien, they had spent many days together walking through the golden trees, speaking of Gandalf and the unshakable optimism of hobbits and even—though his father would have been shocked to hear it—of their homes and cultures and families, things that Dwarves did not share lightly. They had been days of wonder, for he had found beauty everywhere he turned... especially in the face of his companion, as Legolas listened and spoke and sang and laughed. They had been good days, but the death of Gandalf had yet hung over them, an unshakable storm cloud.

Many had been lost, but he and Legolas had survived, and all of their fellowship save Boromir, and in their sights was nothing more dangerous than the journey home. The thought of reliving that leisure time here, in Minas Tirith, was deeply pleasing to him.

As was the thought that Legolas would turn from the company of his kin in order to discuss stonemasonry with a Dwarf. That pleased him greatly.

“A fine night,” he said quietly. “I look forward to it.”

He reached up and seized Legolas's hand, which was still running through his hair. He looked up and saw a red flush seep through the Elf's face. He smiled, and pressed his lips to the back of his fingers. Legolas smiled slowly—ah, he was as fair a being as Gimli had ever seen. Gimli stood and turned, and Legolas rested his hand against his wiry cheek.

“You look regal as a prince, my friend.”

“Perhaps I ought to borrow that,” Gimli asked with a twinkle in his eye, nodding at the circlet on Legolas's forehead.

“Nay—it does not suit you.”

Instead, Legolas bent down and lightly pressed his lips to Gimli’s brow.


End file.
